in the end, it was an easy decision
by GKingOfFez
Summary: "Freckles... shake," he commanded.


_I started this like a day after S11 finished. Haha. Here have Wash POV from S11E18._

...

Wash had been shot before- by South, by the Meta, by enemy soldiers. Truth be told, he'd been shot _at_ more times than he'd actually been physically _shot_, but that was beside the point, the point being that he knew exactly what being shot felt like.

It felt like pain, hot and burning, as a though an ice cream scoop had been heated to a ridiculously high temperature and then someone had used it to scoop out a chunk of his flesh from his side. _Fuck_, he'd been hoping to never have to go through this shit again, but apparently whoever was up There had decided it was high time to remind Wash of the fact that _he_ wasn't on his side. Like, at all. Seriously though, who the fuck did he piss off so much to deserve _this_?

The ex-Freelancer groggily opened one of his eyes to find his visor intact, but that was where his luck ended. He felt groggy, a pounding resonating in his head and everywhere that wasn't burning hurt in other ways. He could already sense where bruises would blossom in the coming days across his front (if he made past the next five minutes, anyway) and some exploration found that his right arm twinged where he had awkwardly landed upon it. The force of the energy weapon had propelled him a few feet and knocked him out cold, but judging from the sounds of combat and Freckles firing his cannons that filtered through his radio, he hadn't been out long.

With a groan, Wash rolled himself over so he was on his back, feeling everything aching. Tucker… he had to get to Tucker. He had to help the Reds and Blues fight. As much as he had some confidence in their combat abilities, with the boss fight with the army of Texes at that Freelancer base and Sarge's trick with the warthog immediately coming to mind, they were definitely _not_ up to par with rebel soldiers, especially that Locus guy. Basically, the simulation troopers were probably all going to die in this _very real_ combat situation if Wash didn't get off his _ass_ and help them.

He attempted to move, to get back on his feet and get his bearings, but the action sent a shard of pain down his side and his vision swirled dangerously so he had to take great, ragged breaths to bring everything back into line.

_Fuck, you can't fight in this state,_ the practical corner of his mind supplied. He shoved it aside in favour evenly forcing air into his lungs to ease his head and then testing out his arms and legs to see if they could take his weight. Vulnerable and injured as he currently was, there was no way in _hell_ he was going to stay that way for long. He was a fucking _Freelancer_, for god's sake. He'd suffered worse and made it through.

Bullets whizzed overhead, as adrenalin and determination fuelled Wash onto his side, and then his knees. His feet were another matter, but soon enough, his legs felt steady enough to bear him and he pushed into a crouching position. His head spun, but he gritted his teeth to ground himself.

_Move, damnit! _His men needed him. He did a quick survey of the area surrounding him, noting the status of the battle as well as the white armoured soldiers that had definitely not been there before (Felix's back up had arrived, evidently). While it appeared that the newly arrived soldiers had the upper hand, their hold was shaky, and judging from the shout of far too enthusiastic shouts amidst the gunfire, they were all young and inexperienced. Damnit.

Wash looked over to where he'd last seen the Reds and Blues, immediately picking out the glint of deep red armour that was Sarge's immobile form. _Fuck._ Whoever had shot at Wash had known what they were doing, taking out the most experienced soldiers first. He couldn't see Tucker, Caboose or the remaining reds which was either a good or bad thing and he was hoping for the former.

With one final push and a contained grunt, Wash was on his feet.

"WASH. WASH COME ON!" A familiar voice bellowed.

He looked over and _there_- teal armour glinting in the sun, beside the caves. Oh, _thank god_, Tucker was still alive. The relief had barely had enough time to wash over him before he heard Felix shout out as well.

"THERE'S NOT ENOUGH TIME, WE HAVE TO SEAL THIS TUNNEL."

Tunnel… time…

There wasn't enough time! There wasn't- _why the fuck was there never enough time?_ The pain resonating from his side felt like a death blow. He wouldn't be able to get to Tucker in time, and Tucker coming to him was completely out of the question. New Republic soldiers were falling like dominos around him, gunfire renting through the air and grenades going off left, right and centre. It was a unique kind of chaos that he'd come to expect from war- _and there wasn't enough fucking time._ He looked at Tucker, standing at the mouth of the cave, the others presumably having run out behind him. The Federal soldiers were advancing.

_There wasn't enough-_

There was a lull, a pause, as though the universe was holding its breath in anticipation. Wash looked to Tucker, at the younger soldier who had so much potential, who he'd taken responsibility for after everyone else had left.

He was the commanding officer- Caboose, Tucker, even the Reds- they were his soldiers. Actually, no, that wasn't quite right - after months trapped in this goddamn canyon, dealing with those sarcastic, lazy and downright ridiculous assholes on a daily basis, they were basically cemented in his mind as his… _friends_. They were his_ friends_. In fact, for the first time since Freelancer- since York, North, Connie- he felt like he had found a home, a family. He had to protect them, keep them all together and safe. He'd once held a gun to Carolina's head to do it, and he'd do it again, gladly.

In the end, it was an easy decision. _He_ would be fine, Sarge was tough and could deal with whatever was thrown at him, and he just hoped to god that someone had dragged Donut out in the indeterminable amount of time Wash'd been unconscious.

He looked over at Caboose's ridiculously named pet, the giant robot still stubbornly fighting despite the sparks and smoke trailing off him.

"Freckles… _shake_," he commanded.

The rocks above the cave entrance tumbled down, almost drowning out the scream of "WHAT ARE YOU DOING!" from Tucker. He watched, breathing a sigh of relief as the last stone settled into place over the blocked cave.

He'd done all he could for his friends. Now, it was up to them to make it without him.

The something, the butt of a rifle, he suspected, hit Wash from behind, and everything went very black.


End file.
